Wooden Spoon Grab Bag

 • Sung-sil and Oh Sun, two of the super-fun women teachers driving me to dinner.

Me: “You guys seem to really love each other.”

Them:  “We do. Sometimes.”

Me: “Sometimes love. The only kind there is.”

• Another 25-bowl dinner at a vegetarian restaurant with a beautiful lotus pond outside.

The delicious brown rice was purple.

• Stop at a Daiso $1 store. My contribution to the Korean economy? A wooden soup spoon.

• Tangent: When I first moved to San Francisco, I bought a wooden spoon at the Zen Center sale for 25 cents. Along with an orange plastic bowl, some chopsticks and a few thrift store pots and pans, this was what I brought to the house I moved to with my then-girlfriend, now-wife. She had a Pinto car, real furniture and kitchen appliances, I had the wooden spoon.

I still do.

Well, now I have two.

• Going to the airport, we drove over the Incheon Bridge. Our host thought it was the longest bridge in Asia and it felt like it. However, further research (thanks, Google) shows that the longest bridge over water is in Louisiana and 23 miles long. The longest road bridge is in Thailand at 33 miles and the longest bridge in general ( a rail bridge) in China over 100 miles long! The Incheon Bridge was 11 miles. Just in case you were wondering.

• Line for foreigners entering at airport customs. Some 800 people.

  Line for citizens. Eight.

  Sometimes it pays off to be an American citizen.

• Numbers Nerd says: “Yesterday my 600^th blog since I started it in Korea two and a half years ago."
Time to collect the greatest hits in a book?

Loving Judgment, Strict Encouragement

At the end of my summer Orff training courses, one theme keeps emerging. Each class I teach, it becomes clearer and clearer that all the clever ways to structure a music lesson, all the effective routes to cultivating a deep musicality, all the social benefits of learning in the circle of community, will fall short if the teacher doesn’t understand the theme that ties them together, a theme worthy of caps and bold:

PEOPLE BLOOM UNDER LOVING ENCOURAGEMENT.

PEOPLE WILT UNDER HARSH JUDGMENT.

(Or as the poet William Blake said a few centuries ago: “Damn braces, bless relaxes.”)

In my trainings, I often remind people of some of the most basic things we know about the brain. First and foremost, that the lower region of the brain (called by some the Reptilean brain) is programmed for survival by responding to danger with one of the 4 F’s—fight, flight, freeze, feed (is the latter the reason why we gorge on chocolate when we’re stressed?). Those four F’s are tied together by another—fear. When we feel fear, the energy goes to the old primal brain and we can’t access higher thinking skills or other positive emotions. Fear comes in all sizes and shapes— from the car running the red light to an angry, threatening face to worry about being shamed or embarrassed in front of the class by a strict teacher. Stress is a cousin of fear and all things that create fear, anxiety, worry, stress, are enemies of education and obstacles to full human development.

In my lecture in the Korean course, I began by asking people to share their experiences in their music lessons they had growing up. As I noted in the post Tools of Revelation, “out came the stories of the harsh critiques, the demand for perfection, the painful practice, the punishment-reward system (including physical abuse) that turned something as joyful as music into drudge and misery.” No one looked back on those feelings with affection, to put it mildly. And yet unconsciously (or consciously when folks believe that fear makes the enterprise more serious), so many of us continue the same patterns. Whole cultures of child-raising and certainly most schools have been built on the premise that strictness and fear make the students pay attention and reaps results.

But what kind of results? And at what expense? Before Sofia and I taught the kid’s class in Korea, Sofia asked them why they thought they were here. “To be tested” said one, with a look of anxiety. The hugs they gave us at the end, as noted in the post Kim Chee and Corn Flakes, was their way of saying, “Thank you for not judging us.” Of course, I was silently judging their first attempts at leading echo clap and improvising on xylophones, but with the motivation of helping, not labeling and sorting.  My job is to accept everything at first, but also shape it and improve it in future classes. But the first step is to simply accept and notice and not critique too soon. In fact, their echo clapping examples were excellent and their xylophone improvisations mostly between good and exceptional. By creating a safe atmosphere, the results were actually superior to what would have come out in the tension of knowing they were being judged, assessed and graded. Their desire to come back for more was amplified, their motivation to improve yet more was fed and their innate love of moving and playing was preserved.

At the same time that I’m advocating for loving encouragement over harsh judgement, I know that up the food chain of development in a particular area, a certain kind of strictness has its place. I’m thinking of the cymbal tossed at Charlie Parker’s feet, Nadia Boulanger’s composition classes in Paris, the Zen teacher rejecting the student’s answer to the koan with a whack of the stick. Perhaps it’s a question of timing— loving in the first stages, strict in the second and lovingly strict and strictly loving at the end of the path. Or an ongoing balance of loving judgment and strict encouragement.

But the summer’s theme of healing the scars of harsh strictness and re-discovering possibility in an atmosphere of friendly encouragement kept coming up time and time again, a sign that I’m on to something here, something that mostly came natural to my teaching style, but has grown in depth. And really, it’s so simple, summed up in the happy phrase that fell into my head many blogs ago—permission to be beautiful. So I’ll close with a testimony recently received from one of my summer students.

“I felt more free and more true and more connected to myself as the teacher, musician and artist that I want to be during these two weeks than I do throughout the year in my job.  I attribute this to being highly evaluated and criticized by a strongly-opinionated teacher, administrative and parent community in my school.  Although I feel respected, valued, and have a tenured position, I feel highly scrutinized and often criticized by other teachers who do not get the way I integrate the Orff approach in my teaching. having to prove myself and be “perfect.”  This leaves little room for mistakes and also little room to feel free, flexible, and even have fun.  The joy I felt during this course allowed the opening of my heart and every pore to fill with the potential, fun, and freedom that I know is inside of me but often goes into hiding due to the rigid and critical environment that I teach in.  I felt like the gates of my mind and heart flung open during these two weeks and that I was able to truly connect with the creative teaching ideas I have, the freedom in my body as a dancer and mover, and my skills as a musician and singer.”

Back in the 60's!

“If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair…”

This the song in the background during one of my kimchee/cornflakes breakfast at the Korea Orff Course. It must have leaked into my subconscious, because when someone asked me “What is the most important thing for the teacher to keep in mind?” I unexpectedly answered by talking about coming of age in the ‘60’s. I said something like this:

“When I was in college, I was part of a counter-culture that sought to change the world. We were convinced that we were the ones to eliminate war, erase injustice, eradicate racism and sexism and classism and lead the future into a loving place dressed with flowers in it's hair. We were hopeful and idealistic, but so young— what did we know of the world? It awaited us with its harsh lessons, its bitter disappointments, its crushing blows to our naiveté. And so of course, we failed miserably. War is still rampant, ignorance and greed still mostly run the show, George Zimmerman is walking free, fine jazz artists like Eliane Elias and Diane Krall still succumb to dressing in sexy nightwear for their album covers.

And yet we did indeed make a large impact. My daughters grew up with basketball and a can-do confidence, my granddaughter will grow up in a world significantly more capable of judging her by the content of her character rather than the color of her skin— and with Michelle Obama as a role model. Gay marriage is beginning its roll down the alley, knocking down the pins state after state and people who spout hateful vile publicly are mostly expected to apologize. Small but significant steps.

Back in college, we were all looking for the way to transformation. And for me, it came from an unexpected place— a chance class with my first and most important Orff teacher, Avon Gillespie. I felt a certain spark in his classes unlike any other classes, a quality of belonging and connecting with others in a shared venture. Avon loved to create big multi-layered events, often from a simple premise. One class, we made a spontaneous opera out of the song Frere Jacques with an accompanying story of a sleepy monk. Frere Jacques was never the same after that.

I found myself as a young teacher very interested, like Avon, in the feeling of the group as a whole, intrigued by the way certain songs, games and musical pieces could create a atmosphere in the room that was both fun and profoundly serious, relaxed and spiritually intense, personally transforming and collectively connecting. To this day, I tend to first feel the whole forest and it takes me awhile to see each tree. Both are necessary, but I found that my default setting was the group, the circle, the community. I began to create some all-school ceremonies and rituals with the community in mind and with music, movement, poetry and song at the center. Here was something real and concrete, far beyond the rhetoric of political revolution or the notion that because we felt good at the end of our yoga session, the world was healed. Here was a way to “be the change we want to see in the world.”

So for me, this became the most important guiding star of my daily classes— to have each class be the world I want to live in and the world that we all would like to live in. Naturally, there is conflict and problems and flowers that wilt in the hair (or can’t find enough hair to hold them!), but it all has the intention and possibility of healing through the power of music, dance and the presence of the imagination. Whether with children in San Francisco or adults in Korea, it is the world I still live in and still love to live in and by the smiles and tears I see here, I suspect it’s a world you all have enjoyed as well.”

A college buddy of mine just turned 60 and made the astute observation, “Hey, I’m back in the 60’s!” Now there’s a great perspective. And indeed, despite World’s best efforts to squash them, my hope and idealism are still kicking and mostly due to these blessed opportunities to witness the many ways both kids and adults rise to the invitation to show their best selves. In my 60’s, the 60’s are alive and well. Minus those illegal (well, finally legal in some places) substances!

And now back to San Francisco, with the metaphorical flowers refreshed and blooming in the few remaining strands of hair. Kamsahamnida!

Universal Tears

It ain’t an Orff course until the tears start flowing. Just finished an intensive four days in Korea. The report?

It was an Orff Course.

Kim Chee and Corn Flakes

Few things surprise me any more when I travel. Each morning, I breakfast on kim chee and corn flakes, scrambled eggs and seaweed while listening to light 60’s rock. Tonight we had a party before the course closes tomorrow and while Nat King Cole was singing to Mona Lisa over the speakers, we started to play some Samul Nori traditional drums. Nat eventually lost out and it was a Korean-fest from there out, a mixture of old folk music and dance, pop songs and a djembe/conga jam with these wild women improvising on all the children’s rhymes we had done during the week. And I mean wild women in the best sense of those words, like the crazy Finns and Icelandic gals. It’s a weird and wonderful world, the old and the new living side-by-side, the far-away brought close (Nat King Cole) and the close going viral far-away— no one tonight did any gangnam-style horse dancing, but the kids in my school were obsessed with it.

Tomorrow I’ll close out my part of the course with some jazz and perhaps a Basque piece and Estonian dance. My colleague and partner-in-crime Sofia has already brought the students to Japan, Greece, Ghana, Spain and beyond. Today we both shared a 90-minute class with kids that was a great pleasure. I especially treasured one of the 12-year old boys coming back to hug me, perhaps his way of saying, “Thanks for not judging me and letting me express myself so many different ways.” The theme that keeps coming up for me is the way we create winners and losers and in so doing, everyone loses. (There’s a book on this theme called Somebodies and Nobodies which never got much attention, but I plan to re-read it. I think it’s one of the big issues of the 21^st century.)

But now, I’m aiming for my first night of uninterrupted sleep, the last vestige of jet lag, only to be repeated in two days when I fly home. And then tomorrow, my last breakfast of kim chee and corn flakes. Good night.

Tools of Revelation

Tonight I gave my fourth lecture of the summer. From Finland to Madrid to Carmel Valley to Seoul, the perpetual search for the words that give shape and meaning to these gatherings of music teachers. Tonight’s began with some thoughts from the participants about what they didn’t like about their formal musical training. Out came the stories of the harsh critiques, the demand for perfection, the painful practice, the punishment-reward system (including physical abuse) that turned something as joyful as music into drudge and misery. And equally some appreciations about the satisfaction of making progress, winning competitions, getting to wear a fancy dress and enjoying a kind teacher. (Or in my case, getting to eat the candy in the waiting room bowl that was forbidden at my own house.)

I gave my talk about the three stages of learning, The first is the period of play and playful exploration with no fear of right and wrong answers. After enough of this, the child is ready for precise techniques and concepts, right and wrong ways to do things for greater control and expression. The problem with the unsatisfying piano lessons was not that there was a call for precision, but that it came too early and with too much fear and shame. The problem with the grueling practice schedule is that it came from the outside rather than motivated from within and too often, was in isolation rather that playing in a community of musicians. The problem with the gifts and threats is that music became a means to something else rather than the sheer beauty and pleasure of the act of making music. There can also be the problem of too prolonged a period of playful exploration, so that the musical impulses never become precisely shaped and refined. But for most, it was the strange atmosphere of formal music lessons that drove people to seek another way of learning and playing music—and hence, their presence at this Orff workshop.

After giving examples at the piano of what I considered to be a more balanced and friendly private lesson, I asked if there were any questions. Somebody asked what to do with sullen teenagers who misbehave and don’t participate positively in their classroom. Out came the useful aphorism—“Behavior is the language of children. And such teenagers are still children. What they’re telling you is that they’re afraid and unseen and unloved and they’re putting on a front to protect themselves from the adults who will shame them and their peers who will ridicule them. Your job is to create a safe environment that will allow them to creep out of their armor, to give them the tools for revelation as to who they really are and to have infinite patience and a fierce faith that they’re worthy. Not easy when they’re blowing off your lesson plan, but stay with it and see what might come out. It takes time. Sometimes lots of time. Sometimes a lifetime.”

My translator choked up here and the tears started to trickle out in the audience. And these thoughts are worthy of tears. Nothing sadder than a kid who was not given what he or she needed from the culture, from the school, from the family. And there’s millions of them walking around, awaiting the one adult willing to take the time to open the door and take them out of their hiding place.

And that’s why I’m here in Korea. To give these teachers some tools to reveal the beauty behind the rolled eyes, the caring, sensitive soul hiding behind the posture. A xylophone is a tool of revelation, a clapping play is an open window, a folk dance is an invitation to belong. May it be so!

Perpetually Six at Sixty-Two

At a boarding school one hour outside of Seoul and a brief moment awakening in the still jet-lagged morning when the misted hills outside the window let me know I’m not in Kansas anymore. When I go to breakfast and dine on kim chee, seaweed and corn flakes, I also sense that I’m somewhere else. The names going around the circle are different and difficult for my ear (though getting better) and like Finland, the homogeneous ethnicity and 99% women teachers attending are distinct from other places.

But beyond that, I’m back in the self-enclosed world of the Orff workshop. The feeling in the room, awash with simple poems, rhythms, melodies from cultures worldwide, is delightfully familiar. Laughter is the same in any language. We all of us were once six years old and now are so happy to take that youthful spirit out of the closet we adults consign it to and let it romp and play freely. I feel like the Peter Pan of the teacher’s world, hanging out with The Lost Boys (well, Girls) who, in these moments of amazing grace, now are found.

Often I play a little game looking at the three-year olds I teach and imagining them as 8^th graders. (Not hard to do as every year I look at the scrapbooks of the 8^th graders and see the photos reminding me of the kid I first knew them as.) And sometimes I look at the 8^th graders and imagine the adults they will soon be. Lately, I’ve been playing the reverse game with adults— finding the little kid they once were, so obvious in their body as they play and dance like they used to (or never did), but also apparent in their faces shining out with that wide-eyed innocence and can-do confidence before the adult world shook them up and made them get serious. 

So yet another way to view this work advertised as “professional development in music education”— as an invitation to release their caged spirit and play like there’s no tomorrow awaiting with lesson plans, bills and the long list of adult responsibilities. Of course, they’re all awaiting us (especially my lesson plan for the next class!), but for some 8 hours a day over four days, it’s playtime with Peter Pan and the Lost Girls. And most amazing of all, a playtime that actually helps me pay those future bills!

I found out that there are four major life passages in Korean culture. The first is the child’s second birthday, which is really the first birthday by other standards (the child is one when born). The next is marriage, the last is death and the third is the 60^th birthday. This comes from the time when 60 was considered a long, long life. (I’m curious as to whether this will eventually be updated. Almost feels like 90 is the new 60.) At any rate, by Korean standards, I had that big event two years ago. And in fact, in many ways I did, with 60 people there to share my poetry with and listen to a performance with a group that was soon to become The Pentatonics, the shining star of my new decade. But thinking back to Peter Pan and how I already related to the notion of perpetual youth as a kid reluctant to grow up, I think I found my Never-Never Land in the world of Orff Schulwerk. It's a marvelous world indeed.